


The Queen of Kings

by loveslashangst, ophymirage



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Baby, Gen, crack!fic, helps if you've seen a cassette tape, silly!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveslashangst/pseuds/loveslashangst, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophymirage/pseuds/ophymirage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In GOOD OMENS, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett propose a theory about what happens to recordings that get left in cars too long. Turns out that they were half right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen of Kings

**Author's Note:**

> I know I’m late to the party, but I fell for this fandom harder than Sam into Lucifer’s cage. It’s all my Beta’s fault.
> 
> This is what mainlining the first 8 seasons of SPN will do to a fanfic writer, especially with a liberal crack-tastic prompt from O. (Though I still think Baby should have an 8-track player. We used to love ours.)

The driver’s side door creaks open, The keys jingle comfortably in Dean’s hand. He settles into Baby's old leather seat; she curves to fit him better than his favorite Levi’s, broken in just right. The Impala’s a little musty, with traces of the various solvents, adhesives, and metal-welds necessary to raise her from the dead. Dean inhales deeply; his baby smells like home.

He slides the key into the slot, gives it a sharp twist, and the motor roars to life. Dean grins slowly, feeling his shoulders relax, and waits for his music to pour out of her speakers.

_HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERE we AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARE! BORN to be KINGS, we’re the PRIN-CES of the UUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-NI-VERSE!_

“FUCK!” Dean stabs the button to stop the cassette.

The tape shoots out of the stereo. He swears, shoves it back in, and hits fast forward.

_She’s a KILLER... queeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN!_

“Jesus H Christ on a pogo stick! NO!” More button-stabbing until that horror is gone.

_I see a little sil-hou-ett-o of a man..._

Okay, he can live with “Bohemian Rhapsody”. Dean sings under his breath right up until he catches himself doing the goddamn falsetto _Galileo! Galileo! Galileo! Figaro!”_ and then he cuts the concert short by forcibly ejecting the cartridge.

Very plainly re-inked on the worn label are the words “Houses of the Holy”.

“--the Hell?” Dean shakes the cartridge. Uses his finger to wind it forward a little. Sometimes these things are weird and cranky -- old music is like an old car, and a little finessing is called for here. He blows into the cassette-slot for good measure -- could be dusty -- and then slips the cartridge back into the player.

_Can an-y-bod-y find meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?... Somebody to loooooooooooooooooooooooooove?_

“Mother-pus-bucket--“ Dean ejects the tape AGAIN, this time with extreme prejudice, and bellows, “SAM!?!”

Sam ducks his head to look in through the passenger’s window. “What?! I got the pie, jeez!”

Dean isn't fooled for a minute by Sam's who-me?-face and waves the offending tape at his brother.

“What? The fuck? Did you do to this? Because hand to God, Sam, Nair is in your future if you are responsible.”

Sam settles into his seat, rummaging through the bag for friggin CARROT STICKS, of all the goddamn things. With ranch dip, because Sam is a giant girl. “What’s wrong with it?”

Dean shifts into drive, and then thrusts the cassette right in front of his sasquatch of a brother’s nose. “Read the label, Sam.”

Startled, Sam bolts down a carrot stick, squinting at the words. “Led Zeppelin?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, taking the turnoff and heading for the interstate. “That’s what I thought too. But get a load of this shit.”

When he plugs the cassette in, a familiar riff starts. _Under pressure!_

Sam nearly chokes. “Is that Vanilla Ice?”

"No,” snarls Dean. “That is not Vanilla Frigging Ice, Samantha. That poodle-shaved putz stole that riff from Freddie Mercury.” 

Sam stops stuffing his face with rabbit food long enough to give Dean his usual blank look. “Who?”

“Seriously?! Are we even related?” Before Sam can say something even stupider, Dean pitches the cassette over his shoulder, where it bounces off Castiel’s unexpected forehead.

“Ow,” says Cas, flat-voiced as ever. He bends to pick up the cassette. “Are you tired of this one, Dean?”

“No,” says Dean in what he thinks is a very reasonable tone of voice, considering the sheer amount of Stupid around him. “It’s Queen.”

“Queen of what?” Yup; that’s Cas -- never misses a stop on the Cluelessness Express. “Or is that meant in the figurative sense, as in superior to---?”

“The BAND, Cas,” Dean interrupts, hands gripping the wheel tighter.

“Oh,” Cas says, as if this explains everything. “Freddie Mercury. Of course.”

Dean glances at him in the rearview mirror. “Of course what?”

Cas touches the cassette with that weird two-fingered healing touch thing that comes in... well, pretty fucking handy from time to time, Dean has to admit. 

“I’m afraid this is my fault, Dean,” says the angel. “I must’ve missed this one.”

Dean reaches expectantly over his shoulder and takes the piece of plastic. He’s not going to hold his breath waiting for a miracle, but...

_Been dazed and confused for so long it’s not true...!_

Dean stares at the player, stunned to hear actual Zeppelin, and then annoyed at being stunned, and then Sam smacks his shoulder and he focuses back on the road. “That’s just... weird.” 

He catches Cas’s eyes in the rearview mirror again. “Okay, Cas, explain.”

“It’s a heavenly quirk,” says the angel. “After two weeks’ exposure to angelic energy, all albums become ‘The Best of Queen’.”

“What?” Sam beats him to the punch.

“Freddie Mercury was created a Herald Angel in Heaven,” explains Cas as matter-of-factly as if he were telling them that the sky is, in fact, blue.

“He’s a what in who now?” Dean says.

“A Herald Angel,” Cas says, and Dean can pretty much hear the capital letters. “In Heaven. He announces major events. It requires a very big, operatic voice.” The angel waves in the direction of the cassette deck. “What you’ve just experienced is a... side effect.”

“A side...” Dean goes hot and cold all over. “So... the rest of my collection...? DAD’s collection...?” Dean's eyes narrow, glaring at Cas as hard as he can. The angel seems to finally realize that Dean might be pissed off about this.

Cas makes an Obi-Wan-type gesture and the car shivers with the kind of energy that kinda grabs you by the balls and tugs.

“There,” Cas says. “The music should be restored now.”

Dean has to breathe very carefully for a few minutes while his gonads unknot. 

“Okay. Angels de-rez tapes,” he says eventually. “Good to know.”

“They might also become Michael Jackson,” Cas adds, probably thinking he’s being helpful when he’s really really not.

“Seriously?” Now Sam is staring at Cas over the seat back.

The angel shrugs. “His heavenly status is pending.”

Sighing, Dean cranks up the speakers:

_RAMBLE ON! And now’s the time, the time is now. To SING MY SONG!_


End file.
